


For want of a name

by pithyPrestidigitator



Series: Onomatology [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, M/M, Mindfuck, Oral Sex, Psychological Horror, Psychological Warfare, Stockholm Syndrome, actual sex, basically bad shit's going down in his head, haha i'm just going to wind up rambling through tags, tags how do they work, these are all things that happen, why is john always the victim but never the crazy person?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pithyPrestidigitator/pseuds/pithyPrestidigitator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme.</p><p>Your name is John Egbert and the bed you wake up in is not your own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Original text: http://homesmut.livejournal.com/15023.html?thread=31239343#t31239343

**Your name is John Egbert and the bed you wake up in is not your own.**

Neither is the room. You can't see much in the dark, but even as you squint at the dim shapes around you you know that it doesn't seem to belong to anyone familiar either. Nothing does. 

You move to sit up, stretch out, and your thoughts quickly turn from puzzling over your location to a much more pressing matter. A quick flex informs you that, yes, your arms are bound behind you with something, most likely duct tape, even more likely duct tape from the same roll that provided the strip pulled taut across your mouth. The situation you've found yourself in has become decidedly less benign.

This isn't good, not at all, and the icy grip of panic has already begun to set in. Breath hitching, you struggle wildly against the bonds, hoping to loosen them enough to get free. Or at least free enough to find out who the hell thought this was a good idea and tell them off.

All you get for your trouble is an unhelpful and painful tumble to the floor.

You lie there for a moment (What more can you do?) before shifting carefully off your bruised side. Settling out into a more comfortable position, you try to think of how you could have gotten into this.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Your name is John Egbert and tits was it cold last night._ **

At least, you assume it was last night. It's the last night you can remember before waking up in this room anyways. But you're getting off track.

It was fucking cold. This would definitely be the last time you volunteered for overtime. The extra padding in your paycheck was nice and all but it was not worth having to trudge home this late. With a shiver, you rubbed some warmth back into your arms and turned the corner into an alleyway you knew led to a shortcut home and- oh.

_Oh my._

That's right! You hadn't been the only one hanging out in the alley that night. There'd been that couple, uh, "hanging out" farther down. You mean, you assumed they were a couple. It might have been too dark to see clearly but the position they were in was rather...compromising. And now it looked like they were staring right at you.

Hands flying up into the air, you had backed up, stumbling over your feet and words. "S-sorry. Didn't -heh- didn't mean to, you know, interrupt. I'll, uhm, just...leave then." The man was already on his feet by this point but the girl she...she wasn't moving at all. Was she? He stalked closer into focus and shitshitshit was that blood? Jesus fuck it was. It was and this wasn't some interrupted late-night tryst it was a murder and the man responsible was moving toward you with his teeth bared in a mockery of a smile and you were going to die and shitshitshit.

You turned to run, but there was a burning pain in your neck and then the world was spinning too fast for you to stand. Before you collapsed you felt arms wrapping around you and somewhere through the haze you thought you heard someone mutter something like "shit," but it may have been "sleep."

And that's exactly what you'd done.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is this chapter so much longer than the others? arrrrg!
> 
> i pretty much tripled my word count.

**Your name is John Egbert and you've never been this hungry in your life. ******

You aren't sure exactly how much time you spend on the ground (your best approximation is: forever) before you finally meet whoever is responsible for your current state. Or one of the whoevers, because despite the similarity in their features the man standing before you is not the same one you'd approached that night.

He lifts you off the floor and props you up next to him on the bed, face a mask of concern as he as he checks you for injuries. He sounds perfectly apologetic as he removes the tape from you mouth (not your arms). Sorry, he says soothingly, so sorry that you got caught up in this. Such a shame you were stuck here but they couldn't just let you go could they? Not after what you seen. And you were just too pretty to kill outright. A real looker.

You sputter in anger and tell him to get the fuck away from you. That you want nothing to do with him. And that ~~probably~~ definitely is not the smartest thing to say to the more than likely crazy probable killer holding you hostage because while the smile never leaves his face his eyes harden and then he back-hands you with enough force to send you crashing back to the floor. Your ears still haven't stopped ringing when he turns to leave, closing the door and leaving you once again in darkness.

\---

You don't see him again until after you stomach decides to forgo growling to indicate hunger in exchange for a dull ache. He crouches down in front of you with a less-than-friendly smile and a bag of takeout. It smells delicious and he say's he's more than willing to let you have some, pretty boy, so long as you're willing to put something else in your mouth first.

You tell him to take the food with him and get out and his smile widens. He leans in conspiratorially, ruffling your hair and informing you that it's only a matter of time before you give in. Just like everyone else.

\---

The pangs in your stomach are ever present now and you can't do anything to lessen them even though you try by curling in on yourself until you think you're about to disappear. It's unbearable. But you're not about to give in like whatever other people he'd tried this on in the past. You've still got your pride left, dammit, and that bastard is not about to take that from you. No matter how hungry you get.

You are a rock.

\---

You are not a rock. You are the farthest fucking thing from a rock. You're like a grain of sand and the closest you are ever going get to a rock is if you were being ground to dust against one.

\---

It takes all your strength to look at him the next time he appears above you, bag of something tantalizing in hand. He rocks back on his heels and he chides you because really, it's your own damned fault you're lying there doubled up in hunger isn't it? Maybe if you had some manners, maybe if you were just a little more grateful for the trouble he had to go through convincing his Bro not to gut you like a pig back in that alleyway, maybe if you weren't such an infuriating, nosy little shit you wouldn't be in this mess right now and aren't you just lucky that he's such a forgiving and magnanimous person because really he should've just killed you the first time you acted up.

Your gaze doesn't leave the food until he slides his free hand under your chin and forces it to meet his own. The paper bag rustles in front of your face and he reminds you that his earlier offer is still on the table if you're hungry. Eyes shut tight, you give a weak nod and he shoves you down on your knees in front of him. Even if your arms weren't still bound you doubt you'd have been able to stay upright without help from the hand wound tightly in your hair. You refuse to open your eyes even as his grip tightens and he jerks you forward. 

You won't watch. You won't, because seeing is believing and if you don't see it than you can almost convince yourself that this isn't really happening. It's just a dream and you're not really gagging and choking around him. Just a dream and then you can't breathe because something thick and hot is spilling down your throat and oh god you think you swallowed some and oh god this is a thing that happened oh god.

He zips his pants back up and sits down next to you, his hand rubbing mollifying circles into your shoulder blades as you sob and heave against the floor. He tuts quietly to himself as he comforts you because god look at how pitiful and stupid you are and how much trouble you've caused and, really now, don't you see how much simpler your life could be if only you would do as you were told?

You offer no resistance when he pulls you into his lap and offers you some sort of cold, shitty, dollar-menu burgers. You just eat them silently out of his hand and try not to think about how much you want to throw-up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Your name is John Egbert and god does he love the sound of his own voice.**

He likes to talk, likes it better when you don't, and you're okay with this. The vague familiarity his sporadic visits have taken on is being counted as a loss in your mind. It doesn't matter how desperately you find yourself in need of company, you're still supposed to be disgusted when confronted with a crazy killer-man, not relieved. And yet you find yourself more and more willing to curl up next to him, face smooshed into his chest as he strokes your back, and listen to whatever he feels like rambling about.

\---

Most days he just wants to talk about himself. He talks about his day and how it was too hot and how this bitch cut in front of him on the interstate and how he just hates leaving the house because god he can't stand other people. He tells you that he lives alone with his Bro and even though they don't get along all the time he's still one of the few people he can put up with on any regular basis. He tells you that he's very, very fond of you.

He also tells you his name (Dave), but you refuse to use it because if you do than he'll go from being some faceless assailant to a person and then you might start to care. You imagine this is the same logic that stops him from calling you by name too.

\---

Some days you think he doesn't quite want you to forget that he's actually dangerous. On those days he comes in dripping with the blood of his latest victim (invariably a girl) and describes to you in gleeful detail how she screamed and pleaded and oh champ you should've been there, should've seen the way she was convulsing, heard the wet thwack of the knife as it slammed again and again into her armlegchestface and maybe he'll take you with him next time and show you the ropes, wouldn't that be lovely?

When you decline, voice shaky, he just laughs and with a crimson finger traces aimless shapes on your face and chest until the blood congeals.

\---

It's when the topic turns to you that you hate the most even more than the bloody rants. You hate the way his hands roam your body (they've been spending a long time at rest on your thighs lately and you're acutely aware that it's only a matter of time before he's no longer satisfied with just having you suck him off) as he tells you how prettywonderfulamazing you are. How happy he is to have you babe because you're hishishishisHISHIS you know? All his and sometimes he'll punctuate his claims of possession with newspaper clippings about you and search parties and dear god the last one said they were giving up and you were presumed dead and you're gonna turn up in a lake justwaitandsee.

All you could do was cling to the front of his shirt and listen to him whisper words of solace (he's not gonna abandoned you like that) as you sobbed away what little hope of rescue you'd been clinging to so franticly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Your name is John Egbert and you are a fast learner.**

In the ~~longlongit'sbeensolong~~ short time you've spent here you've managed to soak up a lot of information you didn't know you needed. You know his name and occupation and interests. You know how to tell what he's feeling, how a visit is going to go, just from a glance as he opens the door. You know that there's no greater joy then watching the life fade from a stupid bitch's eyes as she bleeds her sins out. You know that if you put a blanket on the ground before you go down on him you're less likely to bruise your knees. You know that you're never going home.

You know that it's in your best interests to give him what he wants. Because no matter how much he claims to love your pluck going against his wishes is a one way ticket towards a brutal meeting between fists and face with a final destination of his remorseful apologies and spoon-fed ice cream.

\---

You know that right now all he wants is you back against the wall with his hand fisted in your hair and his tongue down your throat. You know that it shouldn't feel this good. You know that you shouldn't be gasping into his mouth every time the hand on your ass pulls you against him as he grinds a knee up between your legs.

\---

You know what's going to happen next, down to the last detail. His lips will blaze a lazy path up your jaw to your ear and some quip will be made about taking your relationship to the next level as he dances you around towards the bed. And when you finally find your voice to protest he'll cup your shame through your pants and laugh because you're such a terrible liar, kitten, you're just as into this as he is he can feel it. Then he'll shove you down and climb on top and you can't fight back because his belt'll be off and around your arms and the bedpost and there's nothing you can do.

\---

You know what you want. You know that you want him to get it over with already, to hold you down and slam into you and use you up until there's nothing left. But he won't. He's far too considerate to simply seize what he wants without any concern for you. So he'll take his time mapping your body with his hands and tongue and teeth and he'll do his damnedest to ~~try his hand~~ succeed at leaving you a writhing, panting mess beneath him because he loves you babe so so much and his love is much more important than the seething hatred you feel for yourself.

\---

And you know that afterwards he'll untie you, clean you up, and curl up next to you on the bed his face buried in the crook of your neck. You'll lie there, back pressed against his chest, and focus on the sound of his breathing inoutinout and maybe just maybe it'll distract you from your impending self-destruction.


	6. Chapter 6

**Your name is John Egbert and if you don't say it no one will.**

He's never called you by name, not once. Every time he addresses you it's by whatever pet name he finds most apt. When he has his hands wrapped tight around your neck so your pulse flutters beneath his palms you're his hummingbird. On the rare occasion you work up the nerve to fight back you're his pretty little kitten all declawed and mewling as you cough up blood at his feet. Other times you're his champ, his babe, his prettygoodlittletalentedsexy boy. You're his whatever he wants you to be. But you're never ever you.

It isn't like he doesn't know what to call you is, he took your wallet and ids and all of the stuff you had at the time when he took you and squirreled them away or dumped them or something. And you're more than willing to remind him when the opportunity arises. Your name is JohnJohnJohnJohn not baby or cupcake or godknowswhat. It's only four goddamn letters so why is it so hard to say?

But then, you realized early on that you are not and are unlikely to ever be a anything more than a doll in his eyes. No matter how many times he brushes the hair out your eyes as he grunts above you and tells you you're doing such a good job tiger and you break down as you tell him, beg him, scream at him _that's not my name. It's John. John. Why why why can't you say it?_ You know all he'll do is smile a vague whatever you say hun and change the subject until it's his name (Davedavedavenogodyesyesfuck) you're screaming. 

Maybe you should just accept that he's never going to acknowledge you as person. But if you do then maybe...maybe that makes him right.


	7. Chapter 7

**Your name is John, yeah, that sounds right, and you're just so tired.**

You're always tired these days. You spend most of your time sleeping away the secondsminuteshoursdays between Dave's visits. It's so much better than the alternative.

If you're awake spiders will crawl into your head and catch so many flies in their thick, thick webs. You can't take the buzzing. It shakes you apart and you're helpless to do anything but lie there as it slowly morphs into a clash of indistinct voices and half-formed people that you can't quite remember and you just. Can't. Take it.

You're scared so scared of the fact that you can almost place them in your life as though they're supposed to be there. There's the faceless man with the hat and pipe that always seems so proud of something and the smiling girl with the bright green eyes and the short, scowling boy with the permanent frown and so many others and you ~~know~~ think you knew them.

But they just can't be real. You know that. Because if they were they'd be here, right? They'd be here and you wouldn't be all alone in the dark with the spiders and flies and oh god you need him. You need Dave.

You need him to hold you against him and tell you that everything's fine while he sweeps the cobwebs from between your ears. You need him to force you down and put you back together and define your edges when he does because you've forgotten where you begin and end. You need him to tell you who you are.

You need him, need Davedavedave. You mumble his name like a prayer as you ball up in the blankets, all eyes clenching tight and hands pulling hair and sobbing choking dying, until he appears in the doorway, shrouded in light like an angel (your angel), to make you whole again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Your name is John Eg- egsomething.**

Your name is John. Your name is John. Your name is John. Your name is John. Your name is ~~babe~~ John. Your name is John. Your name is John. Your name is John. Your name is ~~sweetheart~~ John. Your name is John. Your name is...is ~~boy~~ John. Your name is J-john, yes? Your name is champ...no, no it's J-jo, uh. Something with a J? Jake? No t-that's not right. Your name is tiger? Kitten? Hummingbird? No no no. Your name is uhm, uh. Your your name is. Y-your name. 

It's.

Uh, it's.

What is it?


	9. Chapter 9

**Your name, for the moment, is Babe.**

There's an itch at the back of your mind that says you used to be called something else. Something... more permanent. But even if that's true that was the past and this is the here and now. And here and now you go by Babe. It's Dave's favorite name for you, what he calls you whenever he's pleased with you. Which is more often than not. You're always good.

You've mastered the art of predicting his wants and needs. You like it best when he just wants you to listen because it means you can snuggle up next to him and focus on the soothing sound of his voice. Sometimes you get to talk too and then it almost becomes a proper conversation.

\---

Lately, all he wants to talk about is his work. He has such an important job, wandering out among the dregs of society in a never-ending quest to root out cancerous growths. And he can't just cut the tumors down where they stand, nope, he has to excise them in a very specific fashion or else they'll just grow back and all his work will be for nothing. But it's worth it, he tells you, so worth it. Sometimes you picture Dave cleaning up the streets so they're safe for people like you and it makes you sad to think of him out there all alone.

\---

Dave stands over you, dripping with blood. His face may be unreadable to most people but you can feel the anger radiating off him and you can't stand that. You can't be happy if he isn't happy! Tentatively, you ask him what's wrong, if there's anything you can do. It's nothing to worry about, he says, just taking a break from work. He got a real snooty one this time. Wouldn't stop running her fucking mouth for anything, talking all sorts of shit. Tell you what babe, if that bitch doesn't figure out her place soon he'll be making her eat that tongue.

You tell him that's horrible. That no one should get away with talking to him like that not when he works so hard and does so much. He studies you for a moment with a funny look on his face and then asks if maybe you want to help him with something. You tell him there isn't anything you wouldn't do for him.

That must be the right answer because he smiles and presses his lips against yours before he stands and leads you towards the door.


	10. Chapter 10

**Your name isn't important right now because you're too busy being nervous.**

He's never let you leave the room before. He's told you again and again that the outside world is a scary place. That's why he keeps you locked away down here, to make sure you're safe. Yet here you are silently following him out the door and down a wide hallway. You bite you lip and try not to let silly fears get the better of you. After all, Dave is right here with you isn't he? There's no way he'd let anything happen to you. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze and it's enough to let you know that everything's going to be okay.

The door at the end of the hall is made of metal, imposing and sturdy, but it swings open easily at Dave's touch. Everything inside is bright and shiny and sterile like a doctor's office. Your gaze lingers on the...thing in the chair near the center of the room. It provides the only splash of color in the room.

It used to be a girl, you think. It hasn't noticed the two of you yet, it's been far too busy squirming and straining against the straps holding it down. You're not sure how it still has the strength to do that. God there's so much blood.

You know what he wants you to do but you don't think you can. You don't think you can and you just want to leave and forget this whole thing but his hands are gripping your shoulder like a vice. You aren't gonna back out on him now are you, babe? His voice is so soft against your neck that you aren't completely sure if he's actually speaking or if it's all in your head. You can't just leave, not after getting his hopes up like this. He was so very happy to get to share this with you and don't you want him to be happy? You tell him it's what you want more than anything. He presses something cool and sharp into your hand and tells you to prove it as it shoves you forward.

From this angle it looks like a normal girl. Like a random girl one would pass on the street and thing nothing of seeing. But t-that's what makes them so dangerous, right? Only Dave has the ability to peer beneath the surface and find the sickness hiding within. So if he says this thing's diseased you have no choice but to believe him. But do you really have what it takes to handle this situation like he does?

Now it's pitiful, watery eyes are on you and you're wilting because you can't stand the sight of it all bloody and swollen and broken. It swallows with some difficulty and begins to speak. Oh thank god, it croaks and you don't want to listen because it grates on your ears, thank god there's someone else here oh god you can help please please you have to help you have to untie it before that crazy bastard comes back and kills the both of you and-

You draw back with an angry huff. Dave isn't crazy. He's not. Not at all. He's smart and kind and wonderful and he works so hard at his thankless job to keep you and everyone else safe and it has. No. Right. to talk about him like that and and there's blood all down your front because you were slamming the knife down with every word and oh god it's not moving and those nasty piggy eyes are dull and it's dead. It's dead and it's all your fault.

There are tears in the corner of your eyes, wet and hot, but you don't get a chance to breakdown because Dave's suddenly right behind you and he's so so proud of his good boy. Tenderly, he pulls the knife out of your hand and lets it drop to the floor. He's shaking as he presses his lips to your knuckles because god he's so proud of you sweetheart he knew you could do it. You're too happy to anything but stand there and let him praise you. Let him suck the blood off your fingers and peel off your ruined shirt and touch you everywhere he wants because you love him and he loves you and babe you've never been hotter than you are right now all painted red.

Then his mouth is on that sensitive spot behind your ear that turns your legs into mush and his hand is down your pants and you've never felt better. Over his shoulder you can see the empty husk all limp in the chair and you can't bring yourself to care.


	11. Chapter 11

**Your name is Monster.**

Strapped to the chair, they have no other weapons left to fight with but their words. So they yell and scream and curse at you and Dave. Monster, murderer, devil, demon, bastard. The desperate have no imagination. After the third or fourth (thing, not insult) you reached the sad conclusion that there wasn't anyone outside of you, Dave, and his rarely seen Bro who would ever understand the good you did in this room. You were saving them and the world from themselves. They should be relieved not upset! Maybe it's just a symptom of their sickness, you can't hold that against them. So you suffer their insults and empty threats and you get down to the business of salvation.

\---

One of them calls you John. A pale, blonde wisp of a girl who's piercing, violet eyes regard you with a mixture of disbelief, happiness, and horror. You don't like her. She makes your head hurt and your vision swim with half-remembered memories that are best left forgotten. You want her to shut up because there's no way NO WAY she knows you and she shouldn't be so relieved to see you're okay (of course you're okay Dave makes sure of that) and nononono you don't want to hear it you don't care if there are people that miss you because if they cared they'd be here but they're not and Dave is so she needs to shut up and you just need to do your job. Your grip tightens around the blade.

In the end you couldn't bring yourself to finish her and Dave had to step in. Then, she didn't bother you anymore, not with her white, white throat opened ear to ear.

\---

Nothing like that ever happens again. The things in the chair go back to being just that: things. Faceless, sorry, screaming things that you can rid the world of without a care. Dave was right (like always). It is a beautiful thing to stand over one as you make the final cut, look it in the eyes, and watch the bright, visceral terror that was its life slowly fade into blank acceptance.


	12. Chapter 12

**Your name doesn't matter.**

A name is just a label, something that helps others define a person. For example, Dave is Dave is Dave is constant like a rock, strong and steady and in control. You are babe are tiger are anything, malleable as clay. You aren't quite a person, more a tool for his clever fingers to pinch and mold into whatever shape he desires before squashing you up to try again. 

And this suits you fine.

You're the luckiest thing in the world. All because Dave took pity on you and loved you. He took you away from your meaningless life (it must have been worthless because you can't recall it. You only remember important things.) and gave you a home and a purpose and you're so so grateful. And even if you don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, if he's going to be angry or happy or sad, if you're going to help him kill or spend the day in bed, even if the "law" he sneers about is going to break down your doors in a misguided attempt at justice, it never bothers you because you know as long as the two of you are together:

Everything's going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not particularly thrilled with this ending, mostly because I didn't really have a set way for this to end. I tried to keep it open enough that people can do whatever they want with it. Did I succeed? Maaaaaaaaybe?
> 
> But at the end of the day this is my story and I'm sticking to it. Or something like that.


End file.
